


The Weekend

by am_bellanoire



Series: The Weekend Trilogy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Infidelity, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am_bellanoire/pseuds/am_bellanoire
Summary: Five days of the week, I am his. But on the weekend, I belong to her.





	1. Chapter 1

_**The Weekend** _

**I**

_"My girl is my girl is his girl, him that's his girl too. My girl is my girl is his girl, him that his girl. Tuesday and Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. I'll just keep her satisfied through the weekend..."_ \- The Weekend, SZA

* * *

Friday mornings are always the same. The alarm clock goes off, my husband starts violently beside me, as if he's been stung by a Billywig, curses loudly and threatens to hex the clock. I stifle laughter and reassure him with a kiss on the cheek before we both rise to start the day. Ron showers first and I go and check on the children.

In my bathrobe and slippers, my hair in its tussled messy bun sticking out and all angles, I tiptoe into Rosie's room first. My daughter sleeps free fall like, on her stomach, her limbs splayed out like a starfish. Only her mop of wavy red hair visible from underneath the blanket. She truly is her father's daughter and the messy state of her room does nothing but affirm the fact. I shake my head with a knowing smile, taking in the toys scattered about, the dirty clothes. Chudley Cannon and Holyhead Harpies posters and banners in the Gryffindor color scheme complete with roaring lion hang crooked on the walls. The old Firebolt Harry has given her for her ninth birthday beside her bed that I have yet to let her fly, though I imagine Ron lets her sneak a ride or two whenever I'm not around. I don't bother to wake her just yet, sure that the smell of breakfast will soon have her running downstairs.

Hugo's room is a stark contrast to his older sister's. My baby boy takes after me. Everything neat and in its place. Where there had been Quidditch memorabilia and clutter in Rosie's room, a large bookcase commands total attention, shelves filled with a variety of reading material, including my favorite Muggle books from my childhood. Though he would not be attending Hogwarts for another four years, I am sure Hugo is ready and will no doubt fill the spot in Ravenclaw so many people have told me should have been mine. The creak of the floorboards underneath my slippered feet rouses my son from his sleep and he rubs his eyes, his russet hair cutely mussed.

"Good morning mum," he greets me with a soft smile, "Today is Friday, isn't it?"

Just the word 'Friday' makes the hair on my arms stand on end as goosebumps erupt all over my body. I blink slowly to clear my suddenly fogged mind, reminding myself that it's not time lose it just yet. And certainly not in front of the children. Later.

"Yes darling, it's Friday."

"Me and Rosie are going to grandma and grandpa's house for the weekend. While you and daddy go to work."

"Yes, that's right."

But only half of it is right. Ron would be going to work. The new case the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Inforcement have been working on for months would once again conveniently keep him occupied for the weekend. Those magical forty eight hours at the end of every week that I crave like an illegal substance. Those two days that manage to get me through the monotonous repetition of Monday through Friday. Those blissful moments when I am no one's wife and no one's mother. Those moments when I can be me, when I am simply alive in every sense of the word.

"Good," Hugo's voice manages to stir me from my reverie, "I like grandma and grandpa's house. Muggles are really interesting. They don't use wands for anything."

Chuckling at my precocious son's musings, I tuck an errant lock of my hair behind my ear, "Yes, darling. Come and help me fix breakfast."

Things move at a quicker pace now, and I can't help but notice the way my body seems to know this. The way my heart rate quickens at each tick of the clock that brings the day closer and closer to the moment that stays on the forefront of my mind. The way my fingers drum against the scarred wood of the table, my foot tapping restlessly against the floor. Ron and Rosie gobble their breakfasts down like ravenous dragons, conversing emphatically with full mouths about Quidditch and the upcoming Cannons match against the Tutshill Tornadoes, and Hugo picks at his toast like an owl. I hardly touch my plate, my stomach churning in a nervous fashion like it always does on Friday mornings, wondering whether something might not go the way its supposed to. But it has to. I have waited my time all week, nothing can go wrong. I cannot bear it if it does.

It won't. And I know it won't. This is simply the route my mind takes every Friday morning. I know this and I will myself to take a sip of my lukewarm coffee. It does nothing to calm the jitters. Then again, I know it won't.

Before long, Ron rises from the table, not bothering to take his dirty dishes into the kitchen. He never does. He's wearing his Ministry robes, his wand already in its holster. He kisses Rosie on the cheek and ruffles Hugo's hair, despite the fact that our son hates it, and moves towards me. I allow him to take me into his arms, just managing to not make my body go stiff. I remind myself that I love my husband, remind myself that I've loved him since I was sixteen. I have to remind myself that I'm happy we're married. Happy that we're together. I'm happy that we have our family. I try to stomp down the reminder that I'm also happy that he's leaving and won't return until Sunday night.

I let him kiss me. His lips are wet and taste like orange juice and bacon. I try not to cringe. He kisses me hard, sloppily, possessiveness in the gesture as his arms tighten around my waist. The churning in my stomach resumes but this time it has nothing to do with nerves. "Love you 'Mione," he murmurs in my ear, his breath warm in my ear, "What's say when I get back we work on baby number three?"

He always makes some sort of innuendo when he is about to leave on his trips. He has wanted another baby since Hugo turned two. To be quite honest, the thought of another pregnancy that could inevitably lead to a fourth, fifth, or more makes me sick to my stomach. Two is enough. It's all I ever wanted, a girl and a boy, the perfect set. Though to someone whose mother birthed seven children, two is only scratching the surface of what could be. Still, I nod and pretend to be receptive, already making up an excuse to use later as to why I cannot. "Love you too," I whisper back, and Ron doesn't seem to notice the dry tone of my voice or the obvious lack of passion in the statement. He is satisfied. It's enough. The children wave as he steps toward the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo Powder from the bag before he vanishes in a roar of emerald flame.

I barely suppress my sigh of relief. I look over at my children. It's their turn to leave now.

Hugo helps me with the breakfast dishes, giggling delightedly at my wand flicks and the charm's beams of light, while Rosie goes up to her room to start packing. Even without direct supervision, I know for a fact my daughter is merely throwing whatever she can find within reach into a bag. I can only hope what she's packing is clean and in wearable condition. I know there will be a tantrum when I have to remind her to leave the Firebolt. It always is. I'm prepared for it. Once the kitchen is put to rights, I send my son up to pack, knowing his small suitcase will be better organized but will be filled mostly with books and he will need help carrying it. I don't mind.

While I'm waiting for my children to come down into the living room, I phone my parents and let them know to expect us by Floo in another twenty minutes. I'm met with no complaint. Of course there isn't. Mum and dad are delighted to babysit their grandchildren while their super witch daughter is off saving all the Magical Creatures. It's my job, after all, Monday through Friday. They have not yet figured out that my weekends are sacrosanct. And, if I can help it, they never will.

"Mum we're ready to go," Hugo calls from the top of the stairs. His sister has already bounded down, taking them two at a time, the Firebolt tucked under her arm, clearly meant to be hidden. As I bypass her to help her brother with his suitcase, I cast a cleverly silent 'Accio', grabbing the broom by its handle as it slips from her grasp. The whining starts immediately, as does the stomping of the feet. It's easy to ignore. I've had years of practice in knowing her father for so long.

It takes longer than the promised twenty minutes to hustle them into the fireplace, but then I already knew it would. Rosie is crying angrily and Hugo is upset about a book he couldn't fit into his suitcase nearly filled to burst. I try not to let the annoyance show on my face. I try not to snap or raise my voice. I remind myself that the frustration is normal and all the tension will be rubbed away in just a few hours. She's going to take care of me. I cannot wait. But first things first.

"I love you my darlings," I say with far more sincerity than I gave my husband at his departure. I do love my children. I love them more than anything. Almost anything. I attempt to stifle that thought because it isn't right. A mother is supposed to put nothing before her children, least of all herself. But it's what I do every weekend. The guilt is there, like it always is around the time I press kisses to their foreheads and they bid me goodbye before they disappear in the flames. A tear rolls down my face, as it always does. I brush it away and turn my back to the fireplace.

My footsteps are quick though there's no need to hurry, not anymore, as I make my way to my desk and pluck up a spare bit of parchment. I dip a feathered quill into a pot of black ink, my hands trembling only slightly as I write in neat scrawl, _'7:30, no later than.'_ My eagle owl hoots softly as I unlock the cage, her wings unfurling, already prepared for the flight she takes every other Friday. I secure the note to her leg and, with an affectionate stroke of her plumage, send her out into the mid-morning sky.

I dress hurriedly in my own Ministry robes and leave for work.

It passes in a dull blur. As it does every Friday. I love my job, and it seems as if the only time I have to remind myself of this fact is on Friday. I feel as if I am going to go insane. All of my rigorously gathered logic and knowledge fail me. The paperwork seems mountainous, the voices of my coworkers easily grate on my already frazzled nerves. I know I reach my wit's end when I snap at the poor House Elf who has come to me to complain about his abusive owners. It is my job to protect him and others like him. To ensure that his conditions are not barbaric or cruel. I cannot do that if I am snapping at him and I apologize profusely, continuing the rest of the day with no further incident. Blessedly, four in the afternoon arrives and I abandon my office, wasting not another precious second in Flooing home.

The time has come. I need to get myself ready.

I soak in the bathtub for an hour, sighing softly as the warm water relaxes my body and mind. As I work my fruit scented body wash into a lather, and work it over my skin, my thoughts drift away from my husband and my children. They unapologetically drfit to her. She who has lit this fire in me, she who makes me feel as if I had not only lost my senses, but never had any to begin with. As I wash, I imagine her hands caressing me, making something in my belly flutter, making arousal spike. I let it rise, moaning softly as I ghost over my core, deliberately not applying enough pressure to satisfy the growing ache. She will take care of it. She always does.

After drying off, I manage to wrestle my hair into a braid, leaving it back from my face. Just as she likes. My makeup is light, never dramatic, never over the top. She likes my natural beauty. I slip into a little black dress and clasp a necklace of pearls Ron has never even seen around my neck. Black is her favorite color. I have learned to forego typical Muggle attire after my favorite pair of jeans were reduced to bits of blue frayed fabric.

I think back to the first time I laid eyes on her. I knew of her, of course. She had always been something of an unhealthy obsession for me. She had been my rival at Hogwarts, despite the fact that she had graduated two decades before I did. It was her records I had strived to break, her praises I strived to earn. Back then, she was faceless, merely an academic hurdle, someone I needed to take down in order to prove that I was the best. I had almost succeeded. She had me by one NEWT.

And I shall always resent that.

Eventually I was able to put a face to the name. I had seen photgraphs of her dozens of times. But of course they did not do her justice. They could never capture her true likeness, her very essence. Yes, I knew who she was before she knew who I was. But in that one, fateful moment, I could never know that she would quite effortlessly turn my cozy little life upside down. She had been there, in Diagon Alley, wild black hair and smoldering dark eyes, commanding total attention, and in that instant nearly bringing me to my knees. She was and is incredible. Hypnotic. Brilliance personified. She does not realize this, despite the facade of confidence she has constructed, but it makes her all the more beautiful. She is fierce and unrestrained like a violent storm and it is this ferocity that continues to hold me willingly captive.

As I prepare a dinner the likes of which I have not cooked for my husband in months, I continue to reminisce on how all of this began. It had started with a duel that had almost turned into a brawl. She is the owner of Morsmordre, an underground dueling hall in Diagon Alley. It was passed on to her from the previous owner a Mister Tom Riddle. She was his protegee and she looked up to him, he was like a father figure to her. An idol. Until his death.

The hall is rather famous, witches and wizards from all over come to train with its renowned dueling masters. Most Aurors cut their teeth there, I know Ron and Harry have frequented it often. The children were at the Burrow, I had just finished my day at work and had a few errands to run in the Alley before collecting Rosie and Hugo and returning home. I was deterred by a commotion coming from outside the hall. A fight had broken out and it had attracted quite a bit of attention. Usually, I would have rolled my eyes and continued on my way, disdaining the fact that grown wizards could behave so immaturely. But something made me stop and turn. Something which, in that moment, I had no idea would ultimately be the catalyst to this forbidden affair. It was her voice.

She stood between two wizards who both towered over her, their wands drawn. Neither uttered a spell, though the tension in the air was electric and the way those who had gathered to witness the fuss where giving them a wide berth, it was evident no one believed hexes and curses wouldn't go flying at any moment. She was furious and near breathtaking in her fury. But her voice, it was deadly calm. Scarily so, edged with something lethal, something manic. Her wand was drawn too, though held almost lazily in her grasp. That was the coy, I realized, as my eyes darted back and forth between the three. The wizards knew it too and neither appeared to have the stomach to cast first. Even in their anger, they knew they were no match. She told them both to leave. Banned them from the hall. Chastised them like they were children. But the arrogance in her words, in her expression, was in no way parental. It was regal. They were peons, and she, the queen.

To watch it, was shocking. But when our eyes inadvertently met, a fraction of a second later from across the Alley, I was mesmerized. She looked me up and down, sizing me up, challenging me to do something, to say something, to contest her decision. As if she could read my thoughts. My mouth had gone dry, my heart had stalled, and no words came. This seemed to satisfy her and she turned and walked back in the dueling hall. The way her hips moved, her body language screamed, commanded that I follow her. And I eventually would.

The first time I actually saw her duel, I think I fell in love with her then. Though, honestly, I can't be sure. There are so many things about her that I love, I can't begin to trace it all back to the first.

The doorbell rings and I am startled from my thoughts. A glance to the clock affirms that it is 7:37 PM and my heart skips a beat even as a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Of course she would not take heed to my instructions. She never does. She does not like to be told what to do. My hands flutter up to my hair, my dress, straightening nonexistent wrinkles and picking away invisible pieces of lint, my nerves practically vibrating as I make my way to the foyer. I inhale deeply, willing myself to calm down, reminding myself that this is the reality of my Friday nights, my weekend. I want this. I want this so badly. And it is that want, that need that compels me to open the door.

She is there, leaning casually against the jamb, studying her nails. She is clad in form fitting dragon hide pants and a matching jacket. The lapels are parted, revealing a silver studded corset that puts her creamy cleavage on full display. I lick my lips. Her hair is unbound, a maelstrom of sable curls. Only her eyes move, flicking upward, hard as diamonds, black as onyx to regard me. There is something predatory in her gaze, something carnal in her ruby red smirk. It makes me quiver with anticipation, with desire.

"Good evening, pet," she purrs, her tone sultry, alluring, "Are you not going to invite me in?"

"Come in, Bella," I whisper as I step back to allow her room to enter my home.


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Weekend** _

**II**

_"You're the 9 to 5, I'm the weekend. I make her lose her mind every weekend. You take Wednesday Thursday, then just send her my way. I think I got it covered for the weekend..."_ \- The Weekend, SZA

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange doesn't simply walk. She saunters. She strolls. Cleverly constructed confidence in every step, pride and arrogance resounding with each click of her heels. Her boots match the jacket, tall, encasing her toned calves up to her knee, giving her about three additional inches in height. I follow her into the living room, pointedly ignoring the photographs both moving and still of my family that sit on the mantelpiece, that hang on the walls. If I concentrate too hard on them, I will feel their eyes watching me, watching her. So I focus on the only thing in the room that can both still my heart and quicken it effortlessly in equal measure. I know she can feel my hungry gaze on her because it slows her movements. She turns to face me, drawing the motion out, perfectly well aware of my eyes taking in every inch of her that they can. There is a subtle teasing in her expression, a knowing look in her eyes. This, this is foreplay. But the games have only just begun.

"Where are the duckies?" she murmurs, tilting her head to one side, an alabaster finger trailing lightly over the edge of a silver picture frame. Rosie and Hugo's bright and smiling faces in the throes of laughter beam out at me. Taunting me in an attempt to stir the guilt that hides behind my selfish desire. I know what she is trying to do. She always does this. She always tries to bring that guilt rolling to the surface. Always tries to give me a way out. To call the whole thing off. To remind me that I have so much more to lose than she does. It has not worked in the past and it won't work now. She knows this too. But I can't ever say she has taken advantage of the situation. I can never say my actions are the result of coercion. It is her own twisted form of collateral. At first, it angered me. I thought it cruel of her to dangle the dearest things to my heart in front of me. But she can be cruel. Uncompromisingly so. Her own personal brand of cruelty is as sharp as the cut of her eyes. I have learned this, but now I know why she does it. And try as I might, I cannot resent her for it.

"At their grandparents'," I reply easily, shifting my weight from one foot to the next, "Where's Rodolphus?" I am pleased at the strength in my tone, grateful the reply isn't breathless despite the fact that her proximity makes it harder to breathe. The question is clipped, and I try not to let jealousy seep into the words. I know that her marriage was arranged shortly after she graduated Hogwarts. There is no love there. No affection. No children. Still, the idea of her belonging to someone else bothers me more than I know it should and I wonder if perhaps she might feel the same way about me. If she does, I'll never know.

"Probably fucking his brother," she says coarsely, smirking. I don't have the words to respond, but my expression must amuse her, for her smirk widens into a grin. She lets a full minute pass, never taking her eyes from me and I suppress the urge to squirm under her stare. Finally satisfied, she hums thoughtfully and steps away from the fireplace. She approaches me, her stride sure, determined.

"You've cooked."

"I have." The aroma of the broiled lamb chops, roasted potatoes, and steamed vegetables I've prepared tantalizingly waft from the kitchen. I have never cooked dinner for her before and am not quite sure why I chose to do so now. After all, this is not our first rendezvous. I can sense her surprise but she covers it easily, never one to allow expressions she doesn't want people to see to show in her patrician features.

"So let me eat it." Her words are chosen carefully, craftily. I catch the double entendre and the schoolgirl blush that heats my cheeks, further fueled by her throaty laughter, is almost embarrassing. I know that lamb is her favorite meal, though the way she is gazing at me I can tell that she plans to devour much more than the dinner. The mere thought sends a pleasurable shiver down my spine. I ache for her to touch me but she doesn't. She won't. Not yet.

We sit at the small dining room table. Usually set for four, it seems empty with only two plates and two sets of silverware. No, it's quaint, I tell myself. Not empty. Bella occupies much too much space for anything to ever feel empty. Her presence is massive despite the fact that she is smaller than I am. Almost delicately built, she is anything but delicate.

My wand work is impressive as I summon the food onto the plates, the same spell used at the Hogwarts Start of Term feast. I cannot help but take notice of how different Bella's eating habits are from my husband's. She does not shovel food in her mouth, crudely talking around too large bites. She uses cutlery like she's graduated from the finest etiquette school in the country. Sips from her wine glass with class. But it's so much more than that.

We actually converse throughout the meal. And she maintains eye contact. She listens to me. She doesn't interrupt me. And the topics are interesting. Thought provoking. Intellectual. It never ceases to amaze me, how smart she is. To the point where I wonder if the Sorting Hat might have made a mistake of not sorting her into Ravenclaw just as I have constantly been told about myself. But the thought is fleeting. Bella is a Slytherin through and through. Her ambition, her determination, her cunning resourcefulness never fails to bubble to the surface like boiling water.

She doesn't snort or roll her eyes at my opinions. Even when they differ from hers. She doesn't call me a 'know it all'. She never hesitates to correct me when my facts are wrong. And I love that. I love that she is giving me her rapt, undivided attention. When she talks about her passions, I cannot help but to tune in rather than tune out like I do whenever Ron goes on and on about Quidditch. She is utterly arresting and it is always so endearing to watch the way her eyes light up when she talks about Morsmordre and dueling. The way her laughter makes her face glow. She is magnetic. And in this case, opposites certainly do attract. She is teasing and flirtatious. And takes delight in the way I blush at some of the things she says, finds amusement in the way my gaze frequently becomes preoccupied with her lips and other assets.

But I know I affect her as well. When she allows her fingers to trace little patterns onto my skin. The way she seems to have to physically hold herself back from doing more. She is drawn to me too and I cannot help but feel attractive, sexy even when I feel her eyes on me. I haven't felt this way with Ron in such a long time, I barely remember it. But Bella is one hell of a reminder of what it feels like to be desired.

It has been a while since this affair has started and every time, every single time, it feels like the first. And it's addicting. She is addicting. Time has no meaning during these moments and I never want dinner to end. But then again, I do, and eventually the now bare plates and empty wine glasses cause the conversation to slowly taper off.

"So, what's for dessert?" Bella murmurs and just by her tone I know this is code for ' let us do what it is that we do'. It changes every time, but for some reason, this weekend's code affects me differently than any of the other covert ways both her and I go about transitioning to the main event. My body is ready. It has been since my son reminded me of what day it was earlier that morning. But my mind still needs to be brought up to speed. It is during this time that I curse my perspicacity. Like I always do. And as sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, she picks up on it. Like she always does.

"Unless you've had enough?" This time it's subtle, but essentially she's doing what she did back in the living room. Giving me a way out. Though, simultaneously, she leans forward in her chair, her fingertips trailing from the line of her jaw to the column of her ivory throat, passed the silver bird's skull necklace she wears, to the swell of her cleavage. She is baiting me, unabashedly daring me to turn her down. Ever the Slytherin. I can't refuse her. She knows I can't. I know I can't. And no matter how many highly logical and realistic paths my mind attempts to take to get me to reconsider, to back out while I still can, I can't think when she is this close to me. Can't think when I know what she wants to do to me. What I want her to do.

The wine stokes my Gryffindor courage, fuels my desire, and without another word, I rise from the table and began to walk towards the stairs that lead up to my bedroom. I don't have to turn around to know she is right behind me.

As soon as we cross the threshold between the corridor and the room I share with my husband, she strikes like a viper. All the air leaves my lungs in a shuddering exhale as Bella grabs me by the waist and shoves me against a wall with enough force to rattle my teeth. Even if I wanted to protest, any words that could have possibly been expressed disintegrate in my throat as her lips find mine. It's more of an assault than a kiss, all teeth and tongue, a fight for dominance to which I submit. I moan into her mouth, my hands making quick work of the dragon hide jacket as she reaches behind me to unzip my dress. She's gotten better with zippers and it only takes her two tries to get it done. The fabric loosens and falls from my shoulders, baring the black straps of my bra. She breaks the kiss, leaving me gasping for air, to tug the dress down so it pools around my ankles and I step out of it.

Even in the dim lighting, I can see the appreciative look in her onyx eyes as they rove over my body. Pregnancy has made it go soft in places but the possessiveness in her touch, the lust in her hooded gaze, chases away any insecurities before they can plant roots in my mind. She has never made me feel anything less than beautiful, anything less than desirable. And I can feel her desire as she kisses me again, consuming me as she reverses our positions and walks me backward, never parting from me until the backs of my knees hit the bed and I'm falling to meet the cool soft surface of the bedding.

I prop myself up on my elbows, my chest heaving, as I watch her take off her boots and toss them somewhere. The pants go next, she peels them off, revealing a scrap of crimson lace. She takes her time untying the corset but the sight of her breasts spilling from their stays, makes my mouth water. Her body is like a work of art. Despite her age, she is in excellent shape. Her training in the dueling hall is rigorous and it shows in the flat plane of her torso and her sculpted muscle tone. With a wolfish grin, she joins me in bed, her lips pressed against my throbbing pulse point. My hands tangle themselves in her endless sea of black curls. I love her hair, so wild. Untamed. Like she is. I whimper as she sinks her teeth into the curve of my neck, her nails scrape my skin as she grabs my hips, holding me still as I writhe beneath her.

When she is this close to me, I can't breathe. This is what it must feel like to drown. She surrounds me, completely. All I can feel is Bella. All I can taste is Bella. She is all that I can smell. Dark spices, cloves and cinnamon, a touch of citrus and vanilla. She isn't gentle, never tentative. And I don't want her to be. Everything she does is with calculated surety. She unclasps my bra and as she grabs one breast, her mouth abandons the bruise she's left on my neck to encase the nipple of the other in its warm, wet cavern. She doesn't linger. She doesn't need to be coaxed or spurred. She doesn't rush. She knows how to draw out the pleasure, knows how to manipulate my body to do what she wants. With her hands, her mouth. Her nails score my flushed flesh, very nearly breaking the skin. Her teeth leave stinging indentations that she soothes with her tongue. She marks me, staking her own unique claim to my body.

The moans and gasps that are torn from my throat are wanton and shamelessly needy, high in pitch, bordering on sobs. It's almost painful, almost too much, but all I can think about is that Ron never touches me like this. Even after years of marriage and two children, he can't manage to make my body sing like she can. I've learned to deal with it, to accept it for what it is. But now, now I can't. I can't imagine not ever knowing the feeling of my heart pounding, my blood burning. I can't imagine not knowing what it feels like to crave another person, to be subjected to this mercilessly ecstatic torture. Arousal scorches my veins, torrid, blistering. I am on fire.

"Oh god Bella, please," I beg, too far gone to be ashamed at the quivering, mewling breathiness of my voice, "Please, please." I feel ready to crawl out of my skin. I need her to touch me. She chuckles, darkly, her eyes blown with lust and fervent pride. She loves when I'm like this, when I go from Hermione Granger-Weasley, wife, mother, and Ministry official, to her lioness in heat. She loves that she is the only one who can bring this out of me. Effortlessly.

"Impatient tonight, pet?" she murmurs, her tone smoky and sensuous, only adding to my desire. I have a theory that she can make me climax with her voice alone, but I am certainly not going to test it out now. I need her hands on me, her mouth on me. I need her ruthless grip, her crushing grasp. I thirst for her.

I can feel my knickers being torn off of me but I could not care less about the ruined, cheaply made cotton garment. Not when her skillful fingers are slipping between my sodden folds, sparking nerve endings, sending currents of rapture throughout my body. Her name, in both its full and shortened form, is like a mantra, ripping from my throat raw and unbidden. She enters me with no warning, three fingers to the knuckles, her lips crashing down on top of mine to stifle my sharp cry of pain mingled pleasure from the invasion. She sets a punishing pace, drawing these carnal sounds, these profane words from me I once had no idea I was capable of making.

Bella's free hand grabs my throat and squeezes, not tight enough to completely cut off my air supply but it is enough to let me know that she can, if she wants to. She could hurt me, if she wanted to. Or if I asked her to. Sometimes I do. "More," I'll whimper, and she would gladly oblige. It turns her on to wield such power, such dominance over me. And it turns me on to submit to it. I can't submit to Ron and I never could. But it feels good, so good to let go. And I can only let go when her fingers are buried deep inside of me and her unforgiving grip leaves its traces on my skin that I will feel for the days leading up to the next time I see her.

She doesn't slow her thrusts as her teeth nip the shell of my ear, making me gasp around my strangled moans. "Who do you love."

The question is posed as a statement, uttered on a rough growl, edged with a subtle desperation that would have given me pause if I wasn't in the throes of an ecstasy that only she can forge. If I wasn't preoccupied with what she is doing, this wicked debauchery she's exacting on my body, I might realize that I've never heard Bella use the word 'love'. Not directed at me. But I don't realize it, don't ponder it because now her lips are blazing a path down my shuddering torso to meet her thrusting hand. The combination of her tongue and fingers never fails to do insane things to me.

"You," I cry out, my head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, my hands gripping the sheets, grabbing at her hair. Anything I can reach, anything that I can use to brace myself against the onslaught of this ravaging tempest she creates, "I love you Bella, I love you."

This forbidden confession, this proclamation that breaks every single unwritten rule we've both constructed, incites her and her pace becomes frenzied, unforgiving. Her mouth, murderous to the point of destruction. My climax is violent, a rolling quake of clenching muscles and screams that are shrill enough to render my vocal chords useless. Tears roll down my cheeks, because it feels so good, it hurts. I feel as if I'm going to break from the power of it, fracture into a thousand pieces because there is no where for all that pleasure to go but through me and I can't take it.

My chest is heaving, burning from the effort it takes to draw in breath. My heart pounds against my ribcage, feeling as if it will inevitably wrench itself out of me. I am convulsing, spasming with this buzzing sensativity. Even the feather light whispers of her touch, a stark contrast to what she has just done, is too much. My vision is blurry, taking its sweet time to focus on her face. To make out the smug simper that manifests itself on her moist lips. She's pleased with herself. Delighted. And I want to hate her. But I can't. The only thing I can do is settle the score, reduce her to a shuddering, sighing mass beneath me. As only I can. Remind her that she craves me just as ardently as I crave her. Make her remember why Bellatrix Lestrange will always come when Hermione calls.

In the aftermath of our passion, she clings to me and I to her. We are wrapped around each other, tangled limbs and trembling bodies. Drifting to sleep, the both of us utterly satiated. I don't let the thought that this is only temporary disturb my peace. I can't let it. I don't need the reminder that this won't last. We have merely a day and a night before reality returns to remove her from my life. Until next weekend. So now, now I have to lose myself in the present. And presently she is in my arms, I am in hers. Where she starts, I end. And it's enough. It has to be enough because if I allow my latent longing for more to surface, it will do nothing but shatter everything.


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Weekend** _

**III**

_"I gotta say I'm in the mood for a little bit more of that. I'm saying what kind of deal is two days? I need at least four of them, more of them, more of you on me, more us. Just tell me you want me and I'll be at your door ready to take his place. Ready to give you what you've been missing on weekdays, what you've been waiting for..."_ \- The Weekend, SZA

* * *

Monday mornings are the same as always. As I wake, I'm aware that the heavy body warming the other side of my bed is that of my husband's. His snoring, like a low speed power drill only helps confirm the fact. I stretch. My muscles ache but it isn't unpleasant. I'm always sore on Mondays, the lingering effects of my weekends. The scratches on my back, though cleverly concealed, sting. Another delicious reminder that comes with flashes of images in my mind. Crimson lips and throaty moans rising higher and higher in pitch. Tight wet heat, clenching around thrusting fingers. I squeeze my thighs together, knowing that it makes no sense to get myself worked up now. There are four more days until I see her again and there is no way that Ron would be able to offer an even tolerable relief. And knowing him, he would probably take it as an invitation to add to our family. No, I need to pull myself together.

It is hard though. All throughout the day, flashbacks plague my thoughts. Then again, I should be used to it. It happens every Monday - my traitorous body seeking its true other half and throwing something like a tantrum when it can't seem to find it. It lashes out, making my grip tighten on my desk at work as a shiver runs up my spine when I remember the way her hands felt around my throat. When I remember the things her mouth had done below my waist, I have to bite down on my lower lip to suppress a groan. The day is long, drawn out. Even more so than it feels on Fridays. I try to distract myself, throwing myself into my work. But the monotony of reviewing paper work, signing docunents, sorting through inquiries, it's not nearly enough to get my mind off of her.

It is but another of our unspoken rules that we don't contact each other on the weekdays. There was a time when I saw her every day, almost religiously, when I would enter the dark and intense atmosphere of Morsmordre to watch her train. And eventually, we would spar. Well, no I couldn't quite call it sparring, could I? She would demonstrate how effortlessly she could have me pinned beneath her, wandless, incapacitated. Her strength, it is something to be marveled at. Watching her knock full grown wizards on their arses in a matter of minutes had been thrilling, exciting on its own. But being on the receiving end of her skill and prowess, it had become intoxicating, addictive. It was no surprise that it eventually became something sexual. When the affair started, the visits to the dueling hall had ceased.

And speaking of unspoken rules. I had broken one. By telling her I loved her. But she had broken it too, hadn't she? By asking. No, not asking. It had been more like a demand that held the undertones of a plea. I had surely given into that demand and hadn't taken it back either. We did not speak on the slip for the entire time we spent together. And she hadn't asked me again. But she had been rather brutal with my body. Even more so than usual. Her particular dose of pleasure is always laced with some pain. It is one of the things that draw me to her, truthfully. The mere fact that she does not hold back, that she isn't gentle. Making love with Bellatrix Lestrange is like dueling and it always has been. She wields her body like a weapon, always striking true with deadly precision, and I relish it. But this time, she was relentless. Unforgiving. I have the marks hidden beneath my magic to attest to it. Perhaps it had been her own way of returning my forbidden sentiments.

I am losing my mind. And the catalyst of my lunacy is a witch who is as savage as a cyclone and about as sweet as sin.

The day passes painfully slow, but eventually it comes to an end. While there had been something of frantic frenzy to leave my office three days ago, I am in no immediate hurry to leave. What awaits me is basically a second career. One for which I am not paid and one which I was not sure I even wanted up until I was in my early twenties. Wife and mother. It sounds incredibly selfish, doesn't it? I am only having an illicit affair, with a dangerous witch - a married, dangerous witch - having the best sex I have ever had in my life. I should be grateful for my husband, even more grateful for my children and their love for me. If only they knew what I have been doing these past few months. If only.

The emerald flames of Floo tickle my sensitive skin as I step into one of the Ministry's fireplaces. If I close my eyes, I can pretend its her fingertips, stimulating my nerve endings but the fire lacks the heat her touch leaves in its wake, and the imagery is ruined even before I am spit out into my living room.

It's half past six. There is no smell of dinner cooking in the air. Of course not. For someone who could eat more than his weight in food, Ron is so awful at cooking, he's liable to burn water when trying to make tea. Of course, growing up the youngest of seven children, he probably never had to cook. But still, he could have ordered out. Well no, he still has trouble understanding how the telephone works exactly. No matter, I am sure Rosie and Hugo will delight at having pizza for dinner. Again.

"Mummy, you're home!" I hear this happy exclamation from my son who bounds down the stairs to greet me. He is always the first to do so and I scoop him up into my arms, planting kisses all over his face while he shrieks and squirms with delight.

"Hello darling," I coo softly, my mood improving as if my son's happiness has worked its own enchantment, "Where are your father and Rosie?"

I know something isn't right when Hugo's brows furrow slightly and he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. It's usually the face he makes when he's trying to decide between lying and telling the truth. But he can never lie to me, so its a rather short internal battle.

"What is it?"

"Rosie hurt her arm flying the Firebolt." The words come out in a rush, uttered in one breath. I set him down as my ire returns tenfold, coursing madly through me. The pent up energy that has been pulsing beneath my skin like a second heartbeat only adding fuel to the flames that had been sparked. I'm up the stairs so fast I might have accidentally Apparated.

"Ronald Weasley!" I scream, barging into our daughters room, Rose is laying in her bed, eyes red and puffy from crying, her favorite stuffed animal tucked beneath her good arm, Ron crouched beside the bed, stroking her auburn curls from her forehead. If I wasn't so angry, I might consider it comical, the twin expressions of horror on both their faces as I stride toward them.

"You went behind my back and let her fly that damned broom after I expressly forbade it!" My voice is so shrill, it cracks but it does nothing to deter my tirade, "What were you thinking?"

Ron stands, his hands extended in what could be considered a placating gesture if it isn't for the somewhat condescending crooked smile on his face and the words that come next.

"Mione, you're overreacting. It was just a broken wrist and I fixed it. Good as new."

And this, this is the perfect example of why I am so unhappy. It isn't the fact that my husband has contradicted by word to our daughter. It is his devil may care attitude about it that angers me most of all. He does not respect my wishes. He never has. Not during our Hogwarts years when he would fan away my frutrations and lectures and not now when it was our responsiblity to raise productive half blood children in both the magical and Muggle world. Why must I always be the responsible one? Why must I always be the stern one? Why must I always be the parent?

I know all of them are expecting me to blow up. Rosie, cowering beneath the bed sheets. Hugo peeking around the corner of the bedroom door. And Ron, shifting his weight from one leg to the next. Preparing himself to take whatever it is I'm about to dish out. I refuse to give them the satisfaction. Willing my face to iron out into an impassive mask, I turn and leave the room.

Four more days, I remind myself. Just four more days. It feels like an eternity away, but I can't let that seep into my internal reassurance. Or I actually might go back into Rose's room and hex my husband within an inch of his life.

I can see Hugo feels bad, probably thinking its his fault that I am upset. So I pick my son up and carry him down into the kitchen. The two of us whip up a stack of pancakes, with the help of my magic. His delight at having a typical breakfast food for dinner helps to dissolve my anger. Even when Ron comes poking around, summoned by the smell of melted butter on the griddle, I hand him a plate and the maple syrup without any snide remarks. I bring Rosie her pancakes, surprising my daughter as I never allow the children to eat in their rooms. I check to make sure that her wrist has healed properly and give her a half arsed lecture about the Firebolt. Then, its bath time for Hugo before I tuck him in. I kiss the top of his head, before turning out the light and closing his door.

"Hermione?" Ron's tentative tone cuts my concentration as I sit in the living room before the fireplace, reading a book. "Do you want to talk?"

"Not really," I murmur, though I close the book anyway and reach for the cup of tea I've made to relax, "There is nothing to talk about."

"The thing with Rose, it was an accident. I know you don't like her flying the broom. But come on 'Mione, she'll be at Hogwarts in another two and a half years. She needs to practice if she's going to make the Gryffindor team."

My eyes narrow and a frustrated growl breaches my lips, "So our daughter's safety can be compromised for the sake of some stupid game? Wow, Ronald. That'll surely win you a 'Father of the Year' award."

"There's an award for that?" he asks, brows furrowing in confusion and I roll my eyes. He can be so daft. He does not understand and if I am being honest with myself, I know he will never understand. We are simply not intellectually compatible. We never were. There is love there, there always has been. But love can only go so far when the two are not only not on the same page, but reading two different books entirely.

"Just forget it Ronald," I sigh, too tired to argue. Too tired to waste my breath. Too tired to let this go on. But I can't allow my thoughts to continue on that path or else the next thing I know, I'll be serving him with divorce papers. The idea is a tempting one though as in the next moment, his lips curve into a little smile, as if he has emerged victorious in this battle of wills and the sudden urge to throw my book at his head very nearly overpowers me.

Four more days.

Uninvited, he settles beside me on the couch, undeterred by the murderous glare I send his way. Merlin, it is so hard. Why does it have to be this way? Why can't he be her? What I wouldn't give to have Bella, curled up beside me, the two of us reading from the book in my hand. Or just sitting in silence, basking in each other's proximity. I would entangle my fingers in her sea of curls while she'd drag the edges of her nails down my thigh. She would whisper naughty things to me, not bothering to hold back every dirty little detail of what she wanted to do to me. And I would smile and blush, before proceeding to allow her to make good on her promises.

A small breathy sound falls from my lips at the mere thought, while at the same time Ron gives my knee a squeeze. It's enough to dry up my desire like the desert during a drought, but he cannot tell. He actually thinks, that after all that has happened, I am going to do this. I can't. I never can immediately following the weekend. Not when her hands are so fresh on my body. Not when her mouth is so fresh on mine. It's too soon.

"Come on, love. Its been so long since we've..."

The bright rushing roar of emerald flame in the fireplace startles us both. I give a short yelp as Ron jumps to his feet. We aren't expecting company and besides, it's far too late in the evening for a social call. Unless it's an emergency. But shock and bewilderment rapidly give way to abject horror as I take in surging waves of black curls, full red lips fixed in a deadly smirk, and glinting obsidian eyes, flicking shrewdly back and forth between my husband and I.

"Lestrange?" Ron barks out, brows furrowed in confusion, "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

She does not answer the question, instead turns to face me, placing a hand on her hip as she tilts her head.

"Pack your bags, pet. I've come to take you with me."

If her sudden arrival tips the scale of my adrenaline off the meters, making my heart gallop beneath my rib cage like a racing horse, her statement makes my heart drop into my stomach and I start to hyperventilate. Cliche as it sounds, I pray to any deity that might take pity and listen that this is a dream. Perhaps I had one pancake too many, passed out on the couch, and the fantasies that have plagued my thoughts all day have whipped up a scene straight from the pages of one of those trashy romance novels I've disdained all my life.

"Go on, we haven't got all night."

"Hermione, what's going on? I-I had no idea you two were friends, let alone knew each other."

Bella's voice, that low, smoky tone that simultaneously sets me on fire and quenches my thirst, pitted against that of my husband makes my head spin in the same unpleasant fashion that one too many drinks might evoke. Never in my wildest dreams or darkest fantasies have I ever imagined hearing them spoken together, both addressing me.

A sharp cackle pierces the tense air, making my blood run cold, sending a shiver up my spine that isn't exactly unpleasant. "Friends. Do you hear that, pet?" Her dark gaze shifts to me, "We're much more than that, aren't we?

"Don't do this Bella," my voice cracks as I mutter the words. She can't. Not like this. Yes, I had broken our rules this weekend, but this, it would ruin everything we have. Even if I was slowly inching myself toward the staircase. I have not even glanced at my startled husband. It is like my body is rebelling against my mind, with all intentions of going upstairs to pack my bags as she has ordered. I want to. And that is the most terrifying part of this all. Ron would not be able to stop me if I chose to. Nothing short of a well aimed hex perhaps could stop me. I want her. I want to be with her. To go wherever it is she wants us to go. To hell with everything else. I want to always feel alive, the way I feel whenever I am with her.

"I'm in love with your wife," Bella goes on, undeterred, and now I can't breathe. I'd not noticed before, but she has her wand in her hand, twirling it absentmindedly between her fingers. Fingers that have done unspeakable things to me. "And if you try to stop us, I think I might kill you."

How has this escalated so quickly. I will myself to calm down, my body to stop trembling. But it won't. She loves me. My hand grips the wooden banister, so tightly my knuckles whiten. She loves me. My left foot lands in the first stair. She has admitted it. Before me, before my husband. Bellatrix Lestrange loves me just as I love her. It isn't a lie. She is many things, but a liar isn't one of them. She loves me. I'm going.

"Mummy?"

My son is standing at the top of the stairs. Confusion and fear fixed on his face. There is shouting from the living room now. Ron's voice. Fervent as it has always been. Heated, angry. Even though I can't see him from this angle, I know just by the sound of his voice that his ears have gone as red as his hair. His fist are clenched at his sides. I can tell.

"You need to get the hell out of my house."

I have never heard that tone of of voice from him. So hard, so sturdy and sure. Hugo's and my eyes lock. His wide, mine filled with tears.

"Go back to your room darling," I manage to say around the lump in my throat, the words choppy, mangled almost. I turn and stumble into the living room to see Bella's wand aimed at Ron. Leveled, not a shred of hesitation in her stance nor expression. Her eyes flicker to mine and I let out a breathy sob.

"Who do you love," she says. The words are tight and uttered around a growl, "Who do you chose?"

There is the same desperation in the question posed as a statement just as it was when she had asked it two days prior. Two days that feel like an eternity ago putted against this nightmarish reality. Then, I had said I loved her. I had made my choice the day I had followed her into Morsmordre. It is her. It had always been her. But then why can I only see Hugo's wide eyed stare? Why is the image of Rosie, who can sleep through almost anything, curled up in her bed playing before my mind's eye? Where there had been the thoughts of her hands touching me, her lips kissing me, I could only see my children.

"Them," I feel as if I am choking, light headed as the single syllable escapesnmy throat, "I chose them."

If there is a color darker than black, I see it now in Bella's eyes. It is as if in that moment, my lover has become a stranger. I don't have a word in my extensive vocabulary to describe the look on her face but in my heart, I know it is betrayal. It is pain. It's chilling, ice where my Bella has always beem heat and fire. And it frightens me down to the marrow of my bones.

"Oh," her voice sounds like it is coming from the farthest end of a pool, warped and distanced, yet clear, "Well then."

I see the flash of green light, bright enough to momentarily blind me before I hear her say the words. Ron's body crumples from beneath him. His eyes, just as our son's were, wide. Though his are blank, unseeing. I can't move. Without another word, Bellatrix Apparates on the spot, simply vanishing into thin air, and I am left alone, staring at the body of my dead husband.

A faint sniffling noise eventually rouses me from my stupor amd I turn to see Hugo, standing behind me. Tears roll down his reddened cheeks as he stares up at me. I have made my choice.

"Come here to me darling," I murmur, my own voice foreign to me as I sink to the floor, beckoning to him with one hand, the other reaching for the wand tucked into the pocket of my dressing gown, "Come here."

He slowly shuffles towards me, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Ron's prone form. I have made my choice.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him tighter than I have ever held him. He hugs me back and I can feel his warm breath against my neck as he sobs brokenly.

"Turn around," I whisper, pulling back to look into his eyes once more. His nose is running, his mouth turned downward as he cries. But he complies, hesitating only slightly as he leaves the warmth of my embrace and turns to face the wall.

I have made my choice.

My hand does not shake as I aim my wand at the back of my son's head of auburn waves. There are no second thoughts. There is no uncertainty, no doubt. I have made my choice.

"Obliviate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first in a trilogy. I hope you all enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it! The prequel will be published tomorrow or so and the sequel is still in the works! 
> 
> Until then, bellanoire (or am_bellanoire as I'm known here), over and out!

**Author's Note:**

> Things really heat up in the next chapter ;)


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